Chapter 2 - THE MISSING LETTER
The silence in the dining room was so absolute that I could hear the grandfather clock ticking in the hallway.
Twenty-two of Chicago’s wealthiest, most dangerous elites sat frozen in their high-backed mahogany chairs. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Sophie’s tiny voice seemed to echo off the crystal chandeliers.
“I saw her take it from the locked drawer where you keep Mommy’s letters. And there was another letter inside... with my name on it.”
Isabella’s face drained of color. The deep, confident tan she constantly flaunted turned to a sickening shade of ash. Her hand, still gripping the silver cake knife, began to tremble so violently that the blade rattled against the table.
“Anthony,” Isabella choked out, her voice high and breathless. “Anthony, she’s… the child is confused. She’s making up stories again.”
Anthony Romano did not blink.
He didn’t yell. He didn’t flip the table. For a man who ran an empire built on fear, his reaction was infinitely more terrifying. He simply stood up, slowly buttoning his suit jacket.
He looked around the table.
“The party is over,” he said softly.
Not a single guest argued. Grown men, politicians, and hardened street bosses immediately stood, dropping their silk napkins onto their untouched plates. Women in designer gowns grabbed their clutch purses, keeping their eyes glued to the floor.
Within ninety seconds, the dining room was entirely empty, save for the five of us: Anthony, Sophie, Mrs. Dalton, Isabella, and me.
The heavy front doors slammed shut in the distance. Car engines roared to life outside, speeding away from the Romano estate as if escaping a bomb about to detonate.
Anthony slowly turned his gaze back to Isabella.
“My bedroom,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “Now.”
“Anthony, please!” Isabella cried, taking a step backward. “You can’t honestly believe a nine-year-old over your future wife! She’s just jealous! She wants to ruin our wedding!”
Anthony stepped forward, closing the distance between them in two massive strides. He leaned down, his face inches from hers.
“If you don’t walk up those stairs right now,” he whispered dangerously, “I will have my men drag you up there by your hair.”
Isabella burst into loud, theatrical sobs. She turned and practically ran out of the room, her red gown swishing violently against the floorboards.
Anthony looked at me. The coldness in his eyes melted for just a fraction of a second.
“Grace. Stay with Sophie. Do not let her out of your sight.”
“I won’t, sir,” I promised, my heart hammering against my ribs.
Anthony followed Isabella up the sweeping grand staircase.
As soon as he was gone, Sophie crumpled. The brave little girl who had just stood up to a monster suddenly burst into tears, burying her face in her hands.
I rushed forward and pulled her into my arms. I didn’t care about my uniform, or the rules of the house, or my place as the cook. I held her tightly against my chest, stroking her dark hair.
“You did so good, sweetheart,” I whispered, kissing the top of her head. “You were so brave.”
“I’m sorry, Miss Grace,” she sobbed into my shoulder. “I didn’t want to ruin the party. But she was going to make me eat the cake.”
“You saved your own life tonight, Sophie,” Mrs. Dalton said softly. The elderly housekeeper walked over, her hands still shaking as she placed the bakery slip on the table. “That woman is pure evil. I always knew it.”
We waited.
For ten agonizing minutes, we listened to the muffled sounds of footsteps pacing on the floorboards directly above us in the master suite. There was no shouting. Just heavy, deliberate movements.
Then, we heard a loud CRACK, like splintering wood.
Sophie jumped in my arms.
A moment later, footsteps descended the stairs.
Anthony walked back into the dining room. In his right hand, he held the wooden face of his locked desk drawer. The metal lock had been completely shattered, ripped from the wood by brute force.
He threw the broken wood onto the dining table. It crashed against the china plates.
“The drawer was empty,” Anthony said, his voice completely devoid of emotion.
Isabella appeared behind him in the doorway. Her mascara was smeared, and her chest heaved, but there was a new, triumphant light in her eyes. The panic was gone. Now, she looked like a predator who had just found an escape route.
“I told you, Anthony!” Isabella cried, pointing a perfectly manicured finger directly at me. “I didn’t take anything! If there was a letter missing, ask the help! Grace has been trying to sabotage me since the day I moved in!”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Mrs. Dalton snapped. “Grace loves this family.”
“She’s obsessed with this family!” Isabella shrieked, stepping fully into the room. “She thinks she’s Sophie’s mother! She’s the one who was alone upstairs yesterday putting away laundry! She took Elena’s letter to make me look like a thief!”
Anthony looked at me. His eyes were unreadable.
“Grace,” he said slowly. “Did you go into my room yesterday?”
“I put the clean towels in the master bathroom, sir,” I said, my voice trembling but my chin held high. “But I never went near your desk. You know I would never steal from you.”
Isabella marched toward me, her eyes flashing with pure malice.
“Then prove it!” she demanded. “Empty your pockets! Empty your apron! Let’s see what the loyal cook is hiding!”
“That’s enough, Isabella,” Anthony warned.
“No!” she screamed. “She accused me of trying to murder a child! I have a right to defend myself! Empty your pockets, Grace!”
I glared at her. I had absolutely nothing to hide.
“Fine,” I said coldly.
I reached my hands into the deep front pockets of my white chef’s apron, intending to pull them inside out to prove her wrong.
But as my right hand slid into the pocket, my blood ran cold.
My fingers brushed against something thick. Something made of heavy parchment paper.
My breath caught in my throat. I froze.
“What is it?” Isabella mocked, a wicked smile curling on her lips. “What’s the matter, Grace? Find something you forgot about?”
With a shaking hand, I slowly pulled the object out of my apron pocket into the light.
It was a thick, cream-colored envelope. The edges were worn, and the wax seal on the back had been broken.
May you like
But it wasn’t just the letter that made my stomach drop.
Sitting directly on top of the envelope, tangled in the paper, was a heavy, tarnished silver rosary. The very same rosary that Anthony’s late wife, Elena, had been buried holding five years ago.
